The Fox and the Doctor
The fog on the Thames does not roll in. It rises. It emerges from the river like a ghost rising from a grave, thick and grey and smelling of salt and decay and the accumulated waste of a million lives lived too fast and too dirty. Dr. Alistair Croft felt it against his face as he walked from the underground to his basement on Southwark Bridge Road, his cane tapping the wet cobblestones, his...
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